


Advanced Reading Copy

by AdamantEve



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Betty is an editor, F/M, Inspired by a prompt, Jughead is a hotshot published writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-15 12:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17528870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantEve/pseuds/AdamantEve
Summary: She's an editor in one of the most prestigious publishing companies in the world. He's the hotshot author, revered by the prestigious imprint that she works for. When Betty and Jughead first meet, his manuscript is mauled beyond recognition under the sharp edge of her red pen, but they recognize each other's brilliance and it's only a matter of time.Maybe a lot of time.Inspired by the prompt: we’ve been arguing for the last six years about everything and the only thing we can agree on right now is the fact that being snowed in the office together sucks





	1. Publish or Perish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EarthLaughsInFlowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthLaughsInFlowers/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by a prompt request from EarthLaughsinFlowers, from this [prompt list](https://ideasonwriting.tumblr.com/post/182213893658/veronicabunchwrites-100-wintery-prompts-for-all).

“Bet you can’t guess who’s coming to New York?” **  
**

Betty looked up briefly from her laptop screen, just quick enough to catch a glimpse of Veronica Lodge’s impeccable visage, with her perfect makeup and expensive suit, standing at the threshold of her office door.

Betty cast her a distracted smile before going back to writing her email. “Oh, hey, gorgeous. Did the drunk ladies behave today?”

The Drunk Ladies were the loquacious hosts of the Today Show, dubbed just so by publicists across the New York metro area because they were so often inebriated first thing in the morning. Veronica complained about them on a daily basis, mostly because they went off script. Whether it was because they were drunk or because they just didn’t give a fuck was yet to be determined, but they were, according to Veronica, a publicist’s bad dream. Not quite a nightmare, but enough to make Veronica wish their bosses didn’t always want the Drunk Ladies on their authors’ press tours.

“Bold of you to suggest that they ever would,” Veronica replied with an arch of her professionally shaped eyebrow. “But I didn’t come here to complain about them. You’re not listening. Guess who’s coming to New York.”

Betty felt that she had way too many things to do to stop and gossip. She still had a couple of hundred pages of a bestselling author’s manuscript to edit apart from the email she was writing to another author where she was telling him to extensively rewrite two chapters of his manuscript because, Betty thought, it read like he was high out of his mind. Emails like these tended to become a flood of email exchanges between her and the authors, with the latter grousing that she was wrong, and her arguing that she was right. It was going to be a long day.

She didn’t have time to play guessing games with Veronica, no matter how much she loved her favorite book publicist.

“Just tell me, V. I’m a little busy here.”

Veronica sighed, rolling her eyes. “Your favorite author, Jughead Jones!”

Betty pursed her lips. “Great. There goes the neighborhood.”

***************

Jughead Jones, New York Times bestselling author and her publishing company’s long-time Golden Goose, lived and wrote mostly out in the upstate New York country home he had, and he mostly communicated with his editor, Kevin Keller, by Skype. He prided himself for being a recluse and whenever he published a book, he limited himself to two major talk-show appearances. He would take interviews at his secluded house and he refused studio photoshoots. Vehemently.

He liked to do book tours, however, showing up for book readings and signings with unlikely enthusiasm.

He liked buying the strangest things in bulk–Tylenol packets, oddly shaped paper clips, cheap party favors, and even condoms at one time–so that he could give them to every person who asked to sign his book. He had quick-fire conversations with them so he could personalize each message:

“Dear Aliyah, Poor you. Sincerely, J. Jones,” he wrote for someone who said she lived in New Jersey.

“Dear Jeff, Get well soon. Yours, J. Jones,” he wrote on another who told him he was addicted to Jughead’s books.

To the grandmother who told him she had asked to be buried with Upon the Winding Staircase in her will, he wrote, “Dear Helen, I hope you would consider being buried with Beneath the Cobbled Stone, instead. Like honestly, you’d be better off. Truly, J. Jones.”

“He likes people who read,” Kevin had told her.  

“Yeah, well,” Betty had replied. “David Berkowitz likes to read.”

“Serial Killers probably rank low on people he likes, but I’d venture to guess he may like you a little more than David Berkowitz.”

***********

Their office rolled out the red carpet whenever Jughead Jones came to town, and it wasn’t that Betty hated him. It wasn’t like that at all. If there was any hate, or dislike, harbored between them, it would be from him to her, because the day he met Betty Cooper, he had seen the first chapter of his manuscript on her desk and it looked like road kill. He had, perhaps, never seen his manuscripts bleed so much in his life.

“Well,” he had said, his acerbic smile cutting straight to the pit of her stomach. “That didn’t work out for us, did it?”

It wasn’t the kind of first meeting she liked having with authors, particularly when they were going to be published for the first time, and six years ago, she was new to the publishing company herself. Perhaps it wasn’t really fair to either of them, to meet over the carcass of what eventually became the biggest selling book of that year.  She wasn’t Jughead Jones’s editor, even then, but Kevin did like giving her first chapters of the authors he handled so that she could edit it, completely unfiltered by corporate bias, personal relationships, and self-congratulatory hype.  

“Keeps me honest,” is what Kevin says it does for him.

Of course, Betty didn’t explain all that to Jones. She didn’t feel she had to. There was something vaguely smug about what he had said–the way he seemed un-bothered by how she had murdered his work in cold blood.  One side of his mouth was lifted the tiniest bit, and his blue eyes looked directly into her green ones. That he was tall enough that she was half a foot shorter than him meant that he had to look down at her and that a forelock of his luscious black hair flopped over the brow of one eye.

She remembered frowning petulantly at what she assumed was intellectual arrogance.

So full of himself, she remembered thinking. Nevermind that getting snapped up by one of the biggest publishing companies of the world, known for publishing brash and bold authors with creative talents that often frightened most of their peers in the industry, did tend to get into any author’s head. It was almost an imperative that authors published by Little, John & Co. had the gumption to jump off planes butt naked, screaming passages of Dostoyevsky’s Crime & Punishment on their way down.

She didn’t assume Jughead Jones was any different, and as a book editor in said publishing company, honed by the huge egos of other authors past, she had grown expert at handling guys like Jughead Jones.

Or so she thought.

She was helping out a friend, was all she had said, and it was her duty as an editor to look at an author’s work with a critical eye.  

His only response had been a smirk, and biting his bottom lip, he wagged a finger at her and said, “You don’t scare me.”

That was six years ago. Since then, she’d gotten countless emails from Jughead, asking her what she thought of certain passages of the books he was writing. Of course, she at first told him that he had to direct all these questions to Kevin, his editor, but with Kevin insisting that his author considered this part of his writing process, she eventually stopped trying to punt Jughead’s emails to Kevin and just began going along with it.

She was often merciless, never holding back on what she thought were the flaws in his work. And while she always thought he was a brilliant writer, she figured that wasn’t what he was emailing her for. Enough people probably told him how great his work was. She wasn’t going to drop the ball on his expectations.

They argued a lot in their emails, but Betty found a strange sort of satisfaction from the push and pull with an intellectual equal, because even when she savagely won most of their written debates, he always came back for more.  

It was true what he said. She didn’t scare him and she respected that.

************

The next time he would drop by the New York office, it would be three years later, gearing up for the publication of his second book, expected to be as wildly successful as the first. She had expected they would greet each other in the hallway like old friends.

They’d exchanged a few comments on Instagram outside of their professional relationship and he’d even, at one time, commented “Wow,” at a picture of her in a red cocktail dress.

It was hard to tell if it was a good wow or a sarcastic one, but he had Liked the photo, so she preferred to assume the former rather than the latter.

So when she saw Jughead through the glass window of her office three years ago and he walked past her door, she had smiled and waved, saying “Jughead!” like an old friend.

His response was nothing she expected. He had said, “Hey, Cooper,” before getting immediately distracted by their esteemed Publisher,  Waldo Weatherbee.

That was it. That was all he thought she deserved.  

And after he left Weatherbee’s office, he didn’t drop by her office to say hello or goodbye. To say that she felt a little snubbed was an understatement. She was pissed. She hadn’t spent hours arguing with him in email about his work, giving him what could be considered helpful pointers on writing his bestselling book, only to be treated like that.

She remembered Kevin telling her that afternoon that Jughead was hoping she could make it to drinks with them later, along with his then rumored girlfriend, Toni Topaz, and Betty had said, “Tell him to kiss mine, Kevin.”

She never thought that Kevin would actually tell him that, but clearly, he did, because Jughead Jones showed up unexpectedly that night at the door of her apartment, his brilliant blue eyes darker than she remembered them, and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Well.

She thought she’d be angry enough that she could slam the door on his face, but that dark hair over his blue eyes, the dark scarf around his neck where motorcycle goggles rested loosely upon its creases, and that black leather jacket with the gang patch, did something to her breath–because it was caught in her throat, and two seconds later, their faces were smashing together with torrid suction, and after a few seconds more, he was unceremoniously nailing her against her apartment wall.

She never thought Jughead Jones would be the standard of every sexual experience she had thereafter, but he would be.

After he made her come two times standing up, he took off all her clothes (yes, she wasn’t even completely naked), dumped her on her bed, and made her come three more times before he let himself go.

She remembered lying on her bed in disbelief, still tingling from her last orgasm, and listening to Jughead catch his breath beside her.

As they both stared up at the ceiling of her room, perhaps lost in their own post-coital thoughts, his hand kind of crept into hers, and she let him take it.

“Betty Cooper,” he had said, breathless.

When she could speak, she began to say his name back when a shrill ringing sound pierced through the room.

It wasn’t her phone, so she could only suppose it was his. He let it ring for a couple more times, waiting for what she had to say, when she said, “Aren’t you going to get that?”

Maybe that had been her mistake.

When he picked up that phone, the look on his face was one of devastation and alarm. It was Toni, and he looked like she had delivered bad news. He was still on the phone with her as he pulled on his clothes frantically, telling her to calm down, to call hs lawyer, to meet him at his hotel.  

She watched him as he did all this, as everything she and he did the last hour withered to nothing, and when he ended his call and put his phone into the pocket of his jeans, he was already headed for the door. “Betty, I gotta go, I’m sorry.”

She remembered worrying for him, walking right after him swaddled in her blankets as she said, “Is everything alright? Is it something I can help you with?”

“Not really. I gotta–I’ll call you.”

She doubted it, then. Disappointed, but not surprised. “Sure. Well, let me know.”

“I will.” He had paused at the door,  his gaze intense on hers, and he pulled her close, planting a firm kiss on her forehead. She remembered closing her eyes, and before she could open them again, he was gone, the slamming of her door putting the period on what could’ve been.

Not that she was heartbroken or anything.  Not really. What they had had been an interlude. A brief moment of physical connection.

It had come and now it was gone.

As it turned out, what had sent him rushing out of her apartment was all over the news the next day.

Jughead Jones’s father, Forsythe Pendleton Jones II, had been arrested for drug trafficking charges the night before. As president of an upstate New York gang, the Southside Serpents, he had allegedly overseen the largest drug distribution operation upstate New York has ever seen in 20 years.

Jughead Jones’s second book skyrocketed to #1 on the NYT bestsellers list and the publishing company barely had to lift a finger.  In the meantime, Jughead Jones stayed by his embattled father’s side for the next year and a half.

She had to admit–he was understandably preoccupied, so when he didn’t call, she really couldn’t bring herself to be sensitive about it.

Perhaps to keep his sanity, he never stopped writing, and once again, the emails to her resumed, so with his father’s legal troubles in the background, he finished his third book.

Betty had briefly considered telling him then that he had some nerve, but really, aside from their one-night stand being the least of his problems, that would seem disingenuous. She actually liked these email exchanges (she would never admit that to Jughead or Kevin), and if he wanted to keep it strictly professional, as in–let’s pretend that night didn’t happen–then she could do just that.

She never told Kevin or Veronica about that affair, and three years after that, while writing his fourth book, he was coming back to New York, as Veronica said, and she wondered what sort of reunion they would have now.

***************

FP Jones had recently been exonerated of all drug trafficking charges, his lawyers having successfully argued that he had been framed by a rival gang. Jughead was arguably less distracted now, and with his fourth book in full swing, his writing career was unburdened by personal matters.

She had learned that their email and online exchanges predetermined nothing about their face-to-face encounters and that uncertainty, out of everything, was what gave her a fair measure of agita.

“Try not to hurt yourself in your excitement,” Veronica told her.

Betty sighed, giving up on her work to look at her friend and address the issue. “Is there something in particular that you need from me?”

“Nothing, B. I just thought you should know. Kevin just got the news, himself, and he’s been pestering me to set up an itinerary of interviews for him. He wants Jones to use every minute he’ll be in New York for press, talking about book 3.”

Betty’s eyebrow arched in surprise. “Book 3? Not book 4?”

“I think Jones’s agent is on the cusp of making a book to TV series deal with Netflix and media noise about what’s already up would help.”

“Well, good luck getting anything on short notice.”

Veronica scoffed. “Please. I get calls about booking Jughead Jones everyday. The guy’s hot, literally and–well, literally.”

Betty had been waiting for someone to make that publishing joke for ages.

And yes, Jughead Jones was incredibly hot.

****************

It was snowing outside. Badly. And Betty trudged into work in her waterproof parka and snow boots. The guard at the reception greeted her with a knowing smirk as he shook her head.

“Don’t work too hard, Cooper.”

She said, “Look who’s talking?” She liked him, Security Guy Jeff. He remembered names and faces and it shows.

As she got to her floor, she noted the silence that seemed to settle through the hallway. She was sure most of her coworkers were working from home, what with the snow storm raging outside, but she never liked working from home. She liked the cold efficiency of an office, with no distractions and relatively good coffee.

She wasn’t alone–a few other people were there, braving the snow to impress or because they liked coming to work, like she did.

As she settled in her office, hanging up her damp coat and stepping out of her snow boots into something more office appropriate, she took in the calm and silence. Here, she could work. Here, she had purpose and she was living her dream of editing great books. Sure, sometimes acquiring books felt like battling for supremacy and grabbing land, sometimes it involved cunning and intrigue, but for the most part, when she had a manuscript on hand, she did her best and her best was rewarded.

Life, she thought, could not get better than this.

She worked all day, occasionally taking breaks to comment on inappropriate memes, but she steadily went through chapters and chapters of authors’ work.  

At around one, she could see a stream of people leaving, and as the clock neared 2, the Publisher, Waldo Weatherbee, peeked into her office and said, “You should head home, Cooper. This storm isn’t slowing down anytime soon.”

She cast him a grateful smile. “I’ll be leaving soon, I promise.”

Weatherbee nodded and tapped the frame of her door. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He left and she was relieved that she didn’t have to keep explaining herself. She worked on, reveling in the silence.

It was around 3:30 that she heard the soft ding from the elevator lobby. It had grown so quiet that the sound filtered down the hallway and caught her attention.

She figured it may be the cleaning crew and she began to put away some of the detritus that had gathered on her desk, sweeping them into her trash can.  

As she straightened her papers and set aside some wayward pens, Jughead Jones appeared in her line of vision, and as he looked around the empty office, she realized she was holding her breath.

The man looked good. Really good.

He was wearing a parka. Any reasonable man would in this weather, and it was the expensive kind, too, so it fit him nicely, but peeking from that practical piece of outerwear was that hint of black and grey plaid–that look of his that the publishing world knew so well. She couldn’t imagine that he would have his gang jacket on, not in this weather, but what wasn’t covered by the parka showed that he hadn’t changed much since she last saw him in person.  

She could see the dark tangle of leather bracelets around his wrists, for one, and while she remembered him having tattoos on his body, she quickly spied an unfamiliar one on the underside of his wrist.  His dark jeans and black motorcycle boots assured that he was still every bit the motorcycle riding Southside Serpent he was known for, and when he tore off his beanie, his glorious black hair sprung up like freaking magic.

_God, I hate myself._

Betty’s self loathing was, even to her, almost perfunctory. Did she really hate having this crush on him? Or was it just a mental defense mechanism? She liked to think that she was a modern enough woman who could have sexual relationships that didn’t devolve into awkward encounters. She’d had other lovers in the past and she never had a problem filing them away in her mental cabinet of Good or Bad experiences.

Then again, those other lovers were never constants in her Inbox, engaging her in incredibly stimulating discussions about character development, off-page backgrounds, and dark human motivations.

When Jughead turned and saw her, she may have imagined the changing expression on his face, how his look of neutral inquiry suddenly became purposeful determination, his piercing blue eyes seeming to darken as he approached. By the time he got to the office door, leaning against the frame, and saying, “Betty Cooper. I was hoping you’d be here.” She knew it was over.

tbc


	2. Trust Your Editor

Still.

She could _try_ to be a little hard to get.

Just because she still had seriously wet dreams about their night together, it didn’t mean she had to give in so easily.

“You know where I live, Jones. You didn’t think I’d be there?” She slammed down her signature red pen and it made a pert sound on the surface of her wooden desk.

He shook his head, his lips tightening together. Whether it was because he was choosing his words well or he was stifling a grin, she couldn’t tell. “I’ve been emailing with you for six years. In that time, New York has had three major snowstorms, and each time that happened, you were working _here.”_

She crossed her arms over her chest. He had her there.

But still. “And how do you know I wasn’t working from home?”

“Last time I was at your apartment, I didn’t see a single manuscript littering your desk.”

_Goddamn crime writers._

She huffed. “And here I thought you were too preoccupied to notice anything else.”

His eyebrow arched, and for a moment, he said nothing.

Betty thought she had won the argument, but he tilted his gaze, and the look he tossed her made her heart skip a beat.

“Oh, you know I was.” His voice was quiet. “Let’s just say I remember _everything.”_

He didn’t seem bashful about admitting anything about that night, which only served to annoy her. If he’d spent time thinking about it, why the hell didn’t he call?

She didn’t think it really mattered, ultimately--it’s been so long, but now that he was bringing it up, maybe she was a little more than curious to hear his side of it.

She wanted to say, “Well, I haven’t thought of it since you walked out my door,” but she was a terrible liar.  Instead, she said, “If you’re wondering why I haven’t replied to your last email, I’ve been extremely busy the last couple of days.”

Whatever his reasons, he didn’t seem deterred by her tone. “You know this isn’t about that, Cooper. Have you had lunch yet?”

Her eyes inadvertently trailed to her trash bin where a Nature’s Dale wrapper lay crumpled. She contemplated saying yes, just to be difficult, but she hesitated a second too long.

“I’m inferring no,” he said.

“I’m good.” It was almost an instinct with her--challenging him. It’s what made their emails to one another so compelling and it seems she found that hard to give up.

He wasn’t trying to change the format, either. “Or we can talk here and get snowed in. I’m warning you, though, that I get cranky when I’m hungry.”

She refused to give him an inch. “I’m not stopping you from getting a late lunch by yourself.”

He didn’t at all seem surprised at being stonewalled. He had no reason to be surprised. He’d seen her stubborn and unrelenting. He once joked that when she wasn’t disagreeing with him on a plot point, it was because he was admitting he was wrong.

She didn’t necessarily think they had a contentious relationship. It was all part of the editing process and she liked to think he knew that, but he hadn’t given her a reason to think that she was more than a part of that process--at least not consistently, so she didn’t think she ever needed to soften her professional literary opinions.

He nodded, acknowledging something--perhaps the fact that he was dancing around something that neither of them had said out loud. “I’d like you to come with me. I’m asking you to give me a chance to explain.”

She gave it a moment’s thought. She wanted to tell him he didn’t owe her an explanation, but she wasn’t quite sure if she really wanted him to walk out of this office thinking that their interlude 3 years ago was the end of their story. She knew that if she let him, she would always wonder about the what if.

He seemed to grow mildly frustrated by her silence. “Look, I’m not leaving you alone in this office building while that storm is raging. It’s either we walk out of here together and I drop you off at your apartment—because a late lunch with me apparently upsets you—or I stay here with you to keep you company, which means we’ll probably get stuck here until tomorrow. We’ve been arguing for the last six years about _everything_ , but i think we can at least agree—being snowed in this office together will suck. There’s no cable, no food, no blankets, and no bed.”

He’s not wrong—about the getting snowed in part. It was looking crazy out there and it was only a matter of time before they closed the building completely. And really, she hated herself for thinking more of “no bed.”

_Seriously, get a grip, Cooper._

“Where would we even go?” she asked, compulsively. “For lunch, I mean. I’m pretty sure businesses are closing because of this storm.”

His eyes perked, and the hopeful look on his face was infuriatingly endearing. “I know a place. It’s along the way in the direction of your apartment. Really great burgers. It’s called Pop’s Chocklit’ Shoppe.”

She was familiar, and she’d heard good things about the place, but she hadn’t had a burger in years. They were packed with calories and she was half-certain that if she ate one, her mother would find out about it and call her--never a good thing. “It’s probably closed by now.”

Jughead shook his head. “It’s open 24 hours, rain or shine. Besides, I know the owner. If he does close for the storm, he’ll let me in.”

She supposed there were perks to being a New York Times bestselling author—a feat unto itself, but to have one’s book hanging on to any one of the first 3 spots for the last 8 weeks, and it wasn’t even the latest one in the series (that one wasn’t scheduled to launch for another 6 months and was expected to be embargoed), anyone should be impressed. It really shouldn’t surprise her that Jughead Jones got special treatment outside of this office.

Besides, she could think of worse things to do than leave the shelter of warmth to go out in the snow storm with New York’s hottest author.

“Fine,” she finally said. “Let’s get out of here.”

*****************

Pop Tate himself let them in through the door, welcoming Jughead with a grin, a jovial pat on the back, and a startling segue to Betty. “Is this her? The editor?”

Jughead didn’t even blink. “Yes, sir. The one and only.”

Pop chuckled, and said, “Well, any friend of Jones that can put him in his place is a friend of mine. Take any booth you want. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Jughead tilted his head in the direction of the booths area, where he led her to the farthest seating, beyond the neon lighting splayed across the windows.

She unzipped her parka, marvelling at the amount of snow that had gotten on it in spite of the short walk from the Range Rover parked on the curb to Pop’s front door. It still surprised her that he drove into the city whenever he left his home upstate. She remembered Veronica complaining about this for the first time, how she had told him to take a train in, and that they’d provide him with a chauffeured ride when he got into Manhattan. He seemed to have taken offense at being driven around the city and preferred to bring his own ride.

Today, it was a boon. They didn’t have to take the train or walk the 5 blocks from the station to the restaurant. The storm was picking up enough that there were less people and cars out in the streets. The city was steadily growing quiet as its denizens began securing themselves indoors.

As she hung her jacket on one of the booth hooks, she noted Jughead’s signature look: plaid over some form of innerwear. When he toured in the summer, that inner shirt consisted of a round-neck with the letter S on it. Sometimes it was a tank--black or white. Closer to fall, he’d wear a jacket over his plaid, or he’d wear the jacket but have his plaid tied around his waist. And then there was the beanie, present for most of the year. He wore this outfit so consistently that he’d been asked about it in interviews--why the many layers?

His reply: “‘Cause I got ‘em.”

She remembered Veronica’s exasperation at that response. All Betty could think was that she loved it.

Today his under shirt was a black Henley, possibly thermal, and it clung slightly to the planes of lightly defined pecs.

She didn’t want to be caught staring at his body so she hurriedly slid into the booth and took up the menu.

He slid across from her, pushing up the sleeves of his plaid as he got comfortable. He didn’t need to pick up his menu, apparently, and it was then she saw his tattoo--the new one. It was a semicolon, the kind people got in solidarity with mental health, but the semicolon also looked like it was superimposed, or was part of, what looked like a familiar red pen.

She could feel the heat creeping up her cheeks and her stomach _kind of_ turned flips. It couldn’t be. It had to be a coincidence. Surely, he wouldn’t tattoo _her_ red pen along his arm like that. And really, what did it mean in the context of a semicolon? Suddenly, she was beset with horror at the thought that her merciless strokes with her virtual red pen had driven him to depression.

She must have been staring, because he held his arm out to her so she could get a better view.

“You like that? Got it a few years back.”

Her eyes warily observed his expression. Perhaps this was what he brought her here for. To tell her that she’d had an adverse effect on his mental health. He didn’t seem upset, at least. “The semicolon…”

He nodded. “It means what you think it means. My dad was--is an alcoholic. Been battling his addiction and depression for years, and he’s better now, but it took awhile, especially around the time he had legal troubles.”

She was ashamed that she ever thought it was about her. “How is he now?”

“Better. He and I are better, too.” He let out a deep breath. “Shit went down. Things got crazy, but our relationship became better for it. The last three years have been… productive.”

That was an interesting way of putting it.

“The red pen, though,” he continued, catching her eyes.

She could feel the heat from her neck blooming anew and it only served to make her feel hotter. She cursed her inability to hide her feelings from him.

Then again, her whole professional relationship with him had been about uncensoring herself. It was easy when all their conversations had been by email. Now that they sat face to face, her emotional cues were refusing to adjust.

His tilted smile assured her that he could tell she was blushing. “You recognize it.”

Her hand inadvertently pressed to her cheek, mortified. “How did you even--?” They never saw one another. He couldn’t have known what her pen looked like, unless it was like he said--he’d thought back on their rare encounters and remembered the details.

“You posted a picture of your red pen on Instagram a while back. You captioned it Ego Slayer.”

He was still grinning, and she remembered that post distinctly now, because she had noticed his “like”. She didn’t particularly post it in reference to him. It was, in fact, in reference to another author who had gone head to head with her, and really, it had been a joke. She had tagged that same author and he had laughed about it with her, but she remembered thinking she was clever for the post. She got so many likes for it.

“It wasn’t in reference to you,” she blurted out, hurriedly.

“I know. You tagged Trev Brown on it. I’m _still_ sore it wasn’t about me.”

_God._

She didn’t think her face could get any hotter, and yet here she was. First impressions aside, she’d come to realize,  after all these years communicating with him, that Jughead Jones hardly had an ego--at least not one that was obnoxious. A New York Times bestselling author, who consistently made the top 3, didn’t have to throw his work into her inbox to get criticized, and yet there he was, time and time again. He didn’t like being on talk shows and he liked meeting his readers during book signings. He was the opposite of having an ego. One could argue that he was a tad self-deprecating.

He’d once said, in the rare talk show chair, that he was a weirdo. Nobody believed him, but in essence, he wasn’t lying. He was a crime writer. He perused police files for real crimes to make his fiction authentic. He admitted to dabbling in investigative journalism in high school when a classmate’s body was found floating down river.

He wore a beanie in the summer, for God’s sake. He _was_ weird, but probably not as weird as he thought he was.

“Not everything’s about you,” she muttered, tilting a grin.

He chuckled. “I pretended it was about me, clearly. The next day I took it to my tattoo artist and had him put it on my arm with the semicolon. I definitely thought it fitting. Almost every single time I send you a chapter or passage to look over, your number one comment is--”

“Too many semicolons,” she finished for him. “Right.”

“Keeps me honest. Reminds me that the stuff I put out is only as good as my editor.”

She paused at his words. “I’m not your editor.”

“And I don’t want you to be.”

He said that with such conviction that if they weren’t sitting face to face, she might have been offended, but the way he looked at her when he said that, how his eyes had grown darker and his gaze felt so intense, she didn’t take it the wrong way at all.

“Not officially, at least,” he continued, his eyes never wavering from hers. “Sleeping with one’s editor is a good idea--said no writer, ever.”

She took a deep breath, flustered for a second. She knew she was here to listen to his “explanation,” but did he have to start off that way? She felt a little disarmed, and maybe he meant to do it. Or was she just that weak when it came to him?

He leaned over the table and for a second, it looked like he wanted to take her hand, but he visibly hesitated. “I haven’t stopped thinking about that night three years ago.”

She fidgeted in her seat. And what was she supposed to say to that? She hadn’t stopped thinking about it, either? It was true, but she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to admit it. She could deflect and point to the handful of guys she’d tried to date since then, but that would be disingenuous.

Why did he have to look at her like that, though? Like he wanted to reach across the table and relive those moments?

Maybe he couldn’t help himself.

She realized--she hoped so.

“Jones, I know you were dealing with a lot of shit following that night,” she began, carefully. “And I wasn’t expecting your call. I’m a big girl. I know you had more important things to think about, but you pretended like nothing happened--for three years, so when you say that you hadn’t stopped thinking about that night, what is it that you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I hadn’t stopped thinking about it, either?”

“I wasn’t the only one pretending.”

She pursed her lips. Fair. She could’ve said something, but that wasn’t the point. “I should go.”

He sighed and he did press his hand to her arm as she began to shimmy out of the booth. “Stop. Please don’t go. I’m an idiot and that came out wrong.”

She simmered, settling back on her side of the booth.

“You’re right--shit went down, and it was intense. My father had gotten arrested and the ‘gang’ we were both in was getting implicated in a ton of criminal charges. Those weeks were some of the hardest of my life. I was supporting my alcoholic father and a bunch of other people were depending on me to keep them out of jail, and I’d like to say that I was so distracted that I couldn’t be bothered to call the woman I had a spectacular one-night stand with and ask her out to dinner, but that would be a lie.” He shook his head, as if to chastise himself. “I tried to call you. I did. I dialed your office number dozens of times, but I never got around to hitting your extension. I kept thinking that if I called you, it would be the start of something good, but that it would all go to shit real fast because of the stuff that was happening around me. It felt—“ he paused, seemingly grasping for words. “Selfish.”

She got that. She was old enough to know how to set expectations. The moment he walked out of her apartment door that night, she was already poised to set her expectations of _him_ . She hadn’t immediately assumed he _wouldn’t_ call, but she expected nothing from him, especially when his situation came to light all over the news the next day. Maybe, for a brief moment, she had hoped that last kiss at the door actually meant a “tbc” instead of a “see ya!”, but when he still hadn’t called three days later, the writing was on the wall.

“Jughead,” she said, gently. “I get it. Honestly, you don’t really have to explain—“

“No, I do have to explain,” he interjected gently. “Just—just let me get through this.”

He looked so earnest that she did nod and sit back, hands folded over the table.

“I know I could’ve called and told you that I _want to_ , but I couldn’t. I was dealing with a fuckload of issues at the time, so it would’ve been absolutely true, but I couldn’t find the words to make it sound like I wasn’t just making excuses and blowing you off, so I never got around to that conversation.” He sighed in frustration. “It then became a thing where I promised myself I would call you as soon as I cleaned up my dad’s mess, and before I knew it a couple of months had gone by, then it was a year, and then another year, and when the case with dad was finally winding down, you started dating Archie Andrews…”

Betty, as always, grew ponderous when Archie’s name was mentioned. She remembered how, back in high school, she fancied herself in love with him.

As his next door neighbor growing up, she had held on to the fantasy of him for the longest time. She had, perhaps, sought that feeling when, a year ago, they had reconnected, and shortly after, started dating, and for a while it seemed like she was finally going to get that fairy tale ending of the high school quarterback falling in love with the cheerleader. The publishing grapevine loved that narrative, and the papers were more than thrilled to tell that story of the professional football player finding love with the neighbor-cheerleader of his youth.

She wasn’t quite as thrilled, she realized.

Apart from being labeled The Cheerleader, as if she weren’t a successful book editor in a world class publishing house, it became clear early on that Archie’s general stress at having intelligent conversation with her was something she simply could not suffer. It became especially obvious to her when she realized that she looked forward to the emails coming into her inbox from Jughead Jones, how it felt like those emails were the only medicine to an otherwise intellectually unstimulating day with Archie.

She broke it off six months ago, and the relief she felt at finally letting go of that old fantasy was enormous.

That Jughead never mentioned Archie in any of their electronic missives was kind of an interesting point in light of how he was mentioning it now—that it had been a factor in his decision not to bring up their night together.

“You kept emailing me the whole time,” she finally pointed out. “Why?”

He looked down at his hands and she could see that his own cheeks were turning red. “It was the only way I thought I could hold on to you, without subjecting you to my troubles, or burdening you with uncertainty. It was our safe space. We can keep having these amazing conversations about writing and fiction without any emotional pressures. I couldn’t promise anything beyond my father’s legal issues, and you were completely free to live your life the way you chose. I know I didn’t deserve your thoughts and words, but if you were willing to reply to my emails, it was enough. At least for the time being.”

She had looked forward to those emails from him. In spite of what could be considered the absurdity of carrying on as if nothing had happened, she had grown thankful at how, out of all the things that were happening to them both, their emails had remained untouched. His cheeky, one line, “Feedback is welcome,” or “For your consideration” accompanying each short chapter or passage he threw her way felt almost like “Show me what you got,” and her response was always fair, but never tempered. He’d reply with intelligent counter-arguments, sometimes throwing in what she may construe as flirting. She wasn’t fussed. She did it, too.

At the end of each round, he’d concede with a tongue-in-cheek, “Thank you for your feedback,” or, in the rare instance, she’d give in with, “Alright, but I’m just saying.”

She never once imagined that he considered these exchanges tiresome, because she enjoyed them, and Kevin had the good sense not to touch it, either. He only ever mentioned it once since Betty’s first objections to it, and it was to assure her that he didn’t mind it at all.

“I can’t begrudge a writer his work wife. Keep doing what you’re doing. It puts him in a great headspace.”

She hadn’t looked back since.

So it was almost silly, really, to sit here and listen to his explanation as if he owed her one. The only promise he made was “I’ll call you,” and ultimately, he was doing her one better by taking her to this very, very… _very_ late lunch.

She appreciated it. That he wanted to explain. That he wanted--what did he want? “And now we’re here. You could have left it at the emails, Jones. We can have those emails forever.”

He nodded, his eyes, once again, stroking the lines of her face. “Oh, I’m never giving up those emails, Cooper. They sustain me, keep me grounded. I’m a better writer because of them.”

She bit her lip. As an editor, nothing was as fulfilling as hearing a writer say that.

“I think that what happened three years ago between us could do with a bit of editing,” he continued. His tone was light, but his expression was heavy with meaning. “I… _we_ jumped the climax.”

His choice of words made her blush, but it wasn’t virginal outrage, that’s for sure.

“It was a great passage in the book,” she said, taking up the word play. “But it kind of caused a writer’s block.”

He nodded, leaning further over the table as his fingers inched closer to hers. “And you always told me--jump back several sentences and restart from there. It’ll clear that block right up. It’s one of the most valuable tips you taught me.”

She hummed, pleased by his acknowledgement. “So you’re saying what happened shouldn’t have happened?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he argued, mildly. “I probably should’ve asked you out to dinner, or at least drinks. You know--start at the beginning. You don’t open a book right in the middle of it, especially if it’s a good one.”

She laughed softly. It was silly, but a good silly. “Jones.” She thought about reaching out to him, about how she had, in their many email exchanges, imagined that he was sitting right there in front of her. Now it was real, so she gave into the impulse, tracing the tattoo on his wrist with her finger.

She heard him catch his breath and she could feel him watching her. “Any other new tattoos I should know about?”

“I’ll gladly show you.” His voice had taken on a slightly rough edge and it went straight to her center.

_God, he’s got me._

“You two kids ready?”

They both looked up at Pop Tate, and Betty had a brief moment of cognitive dissonance, like breaking the surface of hot, sexual tension and finding this wholesome, smiling entity as she came up for air.

“Yes,” Jughead said, only the slightest hitch in his tone. “I think we are.”

*****************

The snow was coming down hard by the time Jughead drove her up the front of her building to drop her off. There was hardly a soul out on the streets and Betty worried that his twenty block drive down would strand him somewhere in the middle and freeze him to death.

“Pull into the underground garage and wait out the storm in my apartment,” she said, straightfaced. “They’ll charge you for the parking, but I’d let Ronnie bill it to the publishing company.”

His finger tapped his steering wheel and his facial expression was neutral when he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Okay.”

The parking garage was a three level space that accommodated many of the residents’ vehicles.  The space wasn’t free. It was an additional $500 a month on top of the rent. A little less if you were paying to own it. The available spaces were allocated for commercial use, offering up paid parking for visitors like Jughead.

He easily found a spot, took note of the number, and took a ticket for the space, then he followed Betty up the key-card protected elevators.  

As they rose up to her floor, Betty had an itch to grab him by the collar of his jacket and kiss him breathless.

She wondered if she wasn’t missing the point of reconnecting with him. If he had just wanted sex, they could’ve done this at her office. She knew there weren’t any cameras there to scandalize the security guard. It would’ve been easy for him to bend her over her office table, push her pants down, and give her multiple orgasms just by the sheer fulfillment of her fantasies of him.

But no. He had taken the time, the initiative, to ask her to lunch so they could talk. Really talk. Not just email talk or publishing talk, but talk like two people who were long overdue for it.

It was interesting, how after the explanations and the vulnerabilities, it felt like they could talk like old friends. She supposed that could happen with constant communication. Words, after all, opened channels. It was a stream of knowledge, and once you let it carry you, you could reveal so much more than you realize.

 _“The new book’s more Warriors than Bohemian Rhapsody, best began at sunset, honestly, but don’t stay at work too late to get your head into it. Just sample it, then read the rest in the morning,”_ he had said, off handedly. It struck her, how he knew she always started her editing process with getting her head in a certain space. She didn’t edit with music on, but she did use music to focus her mind. She would listen to music for about ten minutes, meditating on it, then she would turn off the music and begin.

None of her other writers knew this, and they met with her face to face on a daily basis. Jughead knew this because she might have mentioned it somewhere, in one of their thousand-word emails.

There were many things like that--casual mentions of the things that interested her, where he would start off by saying, “Listen to this, you’d like this…” And he wasn’t wrong.

She found herself doing the same thing--being aware of what he liked, what he tolerated, and what he hated. And unlike her, he seemed unsurprised by what she knew.

Through the years of their communication, she had perceived him as emotionally walled off, but she was beginning to think that between the two of them, she was the one who had set up defenses.

They’d been emailing for years about his work, but while that was happening, she realized they knew more about each other than she had been willing to admit. She knew more about him than any of the men she ever dated.

So by having this burning desire for him, his body, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was discarding something precious. Maybe she should try to explain, herself, but what was she going to say? _I like that we’re friends who challenge each other intellectually. You’re a brilliant writer and I’m a kickass editor, but I kind of want to take off your clothes. I want to do things to you. Is that wrong?_

What, exactly, did she expect from him by inviting him up? Her concern for the storm was true, but she probably would’ve invited him up without the storm, anyway.

_His mind is incredibly sexy._

The truth was overwhelming.  

Perhaps she could just take his hand. That was sweet, right?

She eyed it briefly, remembering the tattoo on his wrist and how she had touched it in the diner, definitely not in a _sweet_ way.

When she looked up at his face, she saw that he was staring at her and his eyes were piercing. She took in a sharp breath and she knew she hadn’t been alone in her explicit thoughts.

He came at her hard, and she held his face in her hands as their lips crashed together. She felt her back come up against the elevator wall, and he pushed against her body so desperately that she hitched her leg up the side of his waist to get him closer. She sucked in precious air between the press of their mouths because she couldn’t bear the thought of being parted from him in the slightest.

His hand clamped over her thigh as he dug his body deeper into the embrace of hers, and they both moaned, perhaps in frustration. Their parkas were so thick, she could barely feel his body. She rolled her hips and her body rubbed against the growing hardness in his pants.

His groan of appreciation was followed by him repeatedly pressing the button for the 16th floor.

It wasn’t going to make the elevator go faster, but she could absolutely relate.

When the elevator doors opened, they stumbled out, kissing and grabbing down the hallway and past the other doors.

She made a desperate dive for her keys in her purse, trying to steady her breathing long enough to focus on slotting the key into her lock.

She could feel his tongue tasting the back of her neck, his hands sliding in her jacket and under her sweater, seeking skin. His fingers dove into the front of jeans and she felt them skim over the fabric of her lacy underwear. It completely shattered her concentration.

She whimpered, gasping his name.

He bit lightly on her ear. “This feels like sexy underwear to me.”

She liked to wear them every once in a while, and maybe she had subconsciously gone with this lacy ensemble because Veronica had told her Jughead was in town. She certainly didn’t think they would be doing _this_ today. She had no inkling that she would even see him, but her mind had reacted to his relative proximity. He made her think sexy thoughts.

“You might like it,” she breathed, craning her neck to catch his lips.

His mouth clamped over hers and somehow, she miraculously keyed them into her apartment.

The door flew open with a bang as they stumbled across her threshold, frantically shrugging off their parkas. She could hear the coats splattering on her wooden floors. On any other day, she would be screaming for the sanctity of her flooring, but right now, she didn’t mind getting a little dirty.

Jughead slammed the door closed behind him and speedily undid his boots. She slipped out of hers easily and hastily started to tear off her clothing, first her cardigan, and then her jeans, but just as she began to push off her pants, Jughead was in front of her, barefoot and bare chested, slipping his hands around her face, and coaxing her into a deep, slow kiss.

“What’s the hurry, Cooper?” he whispered briefly, before continuing in the languid kiss again. His hand trailed down her neck to her shoulder, squeezing gently as he eased his hand down her arm above the fabric of her blouse.

She realized then how tense she was, and that she had to breathe to loosen her limbs and match this pace that he was suddenly establishing.

It was like turning the tempo down, and in the process of feeling the gentle massage of his tongue, she could hear her own breathing, felt her heart beating, and then she could feel the heat of his body radiating against hers.

“I just--” She gathered her scattered thoughts, their lips were still touching, but he seemed to be waiting for her reply. “I just want you, that’s all.”

“Let’s take it slow,” he whispered against her lips. “I want to savor you.”

Closing her eyes, she let his words lull the urgency pooling in the pit of her stomach. It was all she could do to quiet the ripple of restless desire coursing through her body.  

When she felt his mouth suck lightly on her throat, it was almost too much to bear. “Jones--”

“Do you remember--” he began, his voice a soft timbre as he began to undo the buttons of her blouse. “--when you told me that building a mystery should include building anticipation?”

She watched him pop her buttons, his fingers fascinating in their nimbleness. She met his gaze and nodded.

“Make them want to know,” he continued. Her blouse fell open, revealing the lacy, dark blue bra. He traced the patterns of the lace with his fingers and made circles where her nipples were underneath the material.

She could feel her nipples reacting, and she sucked in a breath. “Make them _need_ to know.”

“Make them gasp.” He expelled a breath as he pushed her blouse off her shoulders completely. He lowered his lips to the mounds of her breasts, sucking lightly on her curves. “Make them beg.”

She sank her fingers into his hair, moaning as she felt his tongue tasting her skin.

“I touched myself that night on those words. You do it to me _all the time._ Your words are so, so sexy.”

Even in her state of breathless desire, she was perfectly cognizant of the fact that he was the only person who had ever complimented her on the sexiness of her words, and that she never knew she needed it until now.

He was pushing her jeans down, and this time she helped him remove them. As her pants pooled around her ankles, his hands slid to her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze before she felt him lifting her.

She hopped on her feet, perfectly in tune with his wordless cue, and his hands caught her by her thighs as he hitched her legs around his waist.

“We can talk all night,” she teased, tilting his chin up so she could kiss him. His response was one of hunger, like what she said actually turned him on.

He brought her to her bed, unraveling her bit by bit, and peeling off the layers of her clothing that remained.

The way his fingers sought her dips and curves coaxed her to surrender, but the way he whispered in her ear, how he had imagined and longed for these moments, when they were but a hundred miles apart, undid whatever threads of doubt remained. She came apart under his hands.

When she kissed him, it was because she had no words--an extraordinary feat. It was like the tangling of his tongue with hers had ensnared whatever words she could’ve strung together. The intensity of his kiss was the only thing better than the cleverness of his fingers.

When his lips began to trail down her body, she shuddered with anticipation, when she felt the warmth of his tongue where she needed him most, every coherent thought she had scattered with every cry that escaped her lips, and when he sucked her clit, she got lost in the waves of her climax.

After she crested the wave and started to descend, he eased her back down, and as she gasped for breath, she realized with the barest hint of mortification that he wasn’t even naked yet--not completely.

She hooked her finger over the waist of his jeans. “Off. You need to take this off.”

He seemed unbothered by her advances, settling beside her on the bed and teasing a smile. “I missed that sound. Hearing you come.”

She wanted to argue that he didn’t even respond to her demand, but it was impossible to stay contrary in the face of this story he had built, about how he had coped all these years, the memory of their night together haunting him, and that he just wanted to make the reality even better.

His finger circled her bellybutton, playing with a bead of sweat that had pooled along its rim.

Her breath caught, and impatiently, she began to undo the buttons of his jeans.  He let her, but he never stopped watching her face.

“I had so many dreams of you. Not always naked.” He grinned sheepishly, as if admitting that was a bad thing. “Not always agreeable.”

She gave a slight pout, pushing off his jeans and boxers at the same time.  “But you like that about me, don’t you?”

“I love that you’re too smart to agree with everything I say.”

She had to push his clothing off the rest of the way with her foot, but he was cooperative, like they could be having these conversations all night even as they fucked like bunnies. Because, really, she couldn’t possibly resist a man who tells her that he desired her for her intelligence.

He flipped them over, so that she was straddling him, and she didn’t complain, liking that it was her turn to pleasure him, that she could suck on the soft skin of his throat, that she can trace his tattoos with her fingers, and that she could slide a condom onto his dick. He watched her the entire time, never telling her what to do, and she enjoyed this bit of control. When she took him inside her and she rock her hips to a slow, sensual cadence, his expression was one of complete surrender.

His words of praise were satisfying. And while his hands clasped tightly on her hips, he let her set the pace.

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” he gasped, his eyes showing nothing but appreciation and desire. He closed them momentarily, and she slowed the rocking of her hips. He sighed with relief, and then his fingers were on her clit, his hips meeting hers beneath her.

_Of course he was a power bottom._

She shattered on top of him, moaning about how good it was and how he was, by far, the only one who could do this to her.

He cursed profusely at that praise, flipping her over so that he was on top of her. He kissed her with fervent need and entered her with urgent thrusts. She could feel him on her clit, and she was totally lost in his intensity.

She saw stars this time. As her climax hit, the waves rippled all over her body and her voice carried through the room.

His last thrust went deep, and as he clamped his mouth over hers, his loud groan reverberating through both their bodies. She felt him in his climax, could feel the tension on his shoulders as he crested.

She heard the whispered “Baby,” as he moved a few more times, and she closed her eyes, feeling her own body coming down from its high seconds before.

Next she knew, she felt the weight of him, an all too pleasant blanket of body and warmth.

They were both catching their breaths, but Betty felt comfortable and very, very satisfied.

“Betty Cooper,” he gasped into the crook of her neck and shoulder.

She combed her fingers through his luscious black hair. “Jughead Jones.”

The room fell silent but for the sound of their soft breathing. No phone rang. No thoughts plagued her. Just them, marvelling at the perfection of this moment.

 

******************

 

When she woke up the following morning, she was alone in her bed.

She blinked against the bright rays of the sun streaming through her windows. The space beside hers was cold and as she looked around her, his clothes were nowhere to be found.

“Goddammit,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

_Really, Jughead?_

Disappointment was fast forming in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t going to deny it. She thought--

There were many thoughts in her head right now.

The sex had been spectacular. They went all night, and each time was as mind blowing as the last. She had never called out his name so many times, and hearing him groan hers as he came was the most satisfying sound she had ever heard in her life, but it wasn’t just that. There were the moments in between.

They talked. They looked at one another and laughed breathlessly at the cleverness of each. They exchanged opinions on silly things. They talked about his tattoos. They talked about books. He told her she was beautiful.

What the hell was that all about if he was just going to up and leave--

There was a sound outside her bedroom door, and seconds later, Jughead walked in, barefoot in his black thermal and jeans, carrying a brown bag and one of those paper trays to hold coffee.

She stared at him, too surprised to say anything.

“You’re awake! Perfect. You had absolutely _no food_ in your refrigerator, Cooper, so I--” he paused, seeing her expression. “You okay?”

She swallowed and found her speech. “I--I’m, yeah! What’s in--”

“You thought I was gone and not coming back.”

She felt her face go incredibly warm. _“No.”_

She was a terrible liar and he could immediately tell. He rolled his eyes and set his purchases aside, then he dove beneath the covers, wrapping her naked body in his embrace.

To say that his presence and this unhesitating _affection_ for her wasn’t overwhelming would be another lie. She felt a little paralyzed, or she was unused to being so wrong, especially when she was arguing with Jughead Jones.

He buried his nose in her hair, felt his legs shift to tangle more tightly with hers and his hand run down her spine. “I thought we had a great time last night. Did you really think I would--”

“You weren’t--”

“I left a _note.”_

This was one argument she wasn’t going to win. But she didn’t need to win it.

She looked up at his face and he was grinning. He reached over her shoulder for something on her bed stand. There was a tented piece of paper that she hadn’t noticed in her disappointment, and it said “Betty” in his tall, thin handwriting.

He gave it to her, and at first she thought about refusing to read it, but she took it from him and read its contents. It simply said, “Stepped out to get us breakfast downstairs. Be back in a few minutes. -Jug.”

She crumpled it. There really wasn’t much left to be said.

She draped her arms over his shoulders and proceeded to kiss him, deeply. She was an insecure little wench and she wasn’t going to tell him that she thought he had been a cad. He didn’t deserve to be berated and she could only make up for her unkind thoughts of him. She tightened her thighs around his waist and she felt the twitch of his dick.

He groaned. “The bagels.”

She laughed. “Seriously?”

“They’re better, hot!”

She grinned, cupping his face in her hands and staring at his gorgeous blue eyes. “I’m glad you’re back.”

He cast her a rueful smile. “I’m not going to screw this up again. I--I like this--what we are. I like that conversation with you is never boring.”

Her stomach fluttered. She almost disdained herself for it. She wasn’t a romance editor. She liked hard hitting fiction, but really, there was nothing like a good romance novel to describe human emotion and desire. She didn’t mind being stuck in the pages of one for a few hours. A few days. Particularly if her dark, brooding man was Jughead Jones.

“I like your words,” she finally said. “I like them in email.”

His gaze flickered, both hopeful and afraid.

“But I like them better in person,” she finished.

His smile made her feel like a heroine in a book with a happy ending.

And she recognized that in publishing, those were so very rare.

He hummed and began to nose her throat, his body pressing into hers. “You’re never going to be rid of me, Cooper.” She felt teeth and she gave him more access. “We’re talking chapters, now.”

She liked that. A lot. “Promise?”

He kissed her, then he began to peel off his shirt. “Promised and copyrighted.”

 

 

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that I can't do prompts right.


End file.
